Chapter Five
Dear Diary,
I don't know how to write what I am feeling. I don't know how to put the turmoil inside of me into words. I don't know how to express myself because my whole life I have been told not to. 'Don't get too happy Lizzie' 'Don't be sad Lizzie' Well, how am I supposed to feel? If someone could just tell me what to do… if I could just read a book or follow instructions… or…
I look up from my journal, stare at the ceiling and take a deep breath in. I feel the tears that were threatening to spill over disappear back into my body. It's cold in the arena where I am sitting, not cold enough to freeze my tears but cold to chill me through and through. But it's also quiet and away from everyone. The boys would have left their on-ice practice before lunch and won't be back for awhile – if at all. Most of them will go for a nap after lunch, some will head out to the beach or the nearby golf course.
I wish I could have gotten a nap. I am tired but couldn't sleep. It was a long drive to and from Winnipeg, the highways weren't busy but the construction – oye! I hate the damn summer construction. I thought coming and sitting in here would be relaxing, it used to be when I was younger. I used to come in here and watch Charlie practice. I loved watching him practice. I used to bug him when he missed and that would make him try harder, his ego drove so much of what he did, but shame and fear of embarrassment won out in the end.
I don't need instructions… I need a bloody hypnotist, to wipe away everything in my head. Everything I do, I always resort back to missing him. I wish I could shake it. Put it out of my mind 'cause it's not like I am looking back on my memories with fondness. I now look back at them and see what they really were. Maybe the hypnotist could make me less jaded? Erase my memory, make me a nicer person, give me strength to deal with people I don't like, maybe give me some patience? Wow… can a hypnotist just make me a new person? If so, I might also request longer legs and bigger boobs. Maybe less split ends…
And there I go again. Making jokes. According to the therapist, that's what I do to cope with my problems. As soon as I begin to reveal something about myself, I mask it with sarcasm and people read it as me being fine.
I'm not fine. I'm a mess.
I lower my head to my lap and begin to sob quietly to myself, dropping the journal and the pen to my feet. I know it's not the best form of therapy but sometimes I just need to cry. I just need to let it out. It builds up pressure inside me and just needs out. I worry about the day when it escapes in front of people. That's why I allow myself to cry in controlled settings. It's like setting fire to a field on purpose, to prevent a fire. A controlled burn. This is a controlled cry. I control the setting, the timing and I never let it get out of hand.
In fact, it's over.
I sit up, straighten my back, sniffle in my snot goobers and wipe my tears away with the sleeve of my sweater. I bend over and lift my journal off the floor and look down at what I've just written. I angrily rip out the page and crumple it up, throwing it as far as I can. This journal thing is stupid anyway.
I stand up to leave, just as the gate to the rink opens and a player skates out. I can't tell who it is right away, as not many lights are on, but as I watch him move around the ice surface, creating drills for himself, it becomes clear to me. I have a momentary flashback, to a better, easier time in my life as I watch the newest face of the NHL move around the ice. I sit back down and watch, not trusting my legs to carry me down the stairs, as he forces himself to run wind sprints. I don't think he is supposed to be pushing himself that hard yet but… I remember what it was like trying to stop someone who naturally competes – even with himself – to stop.
When he has tortured himself enough, he skates over to the bench, takes a drink and reaches for a bag of pucks, dumping them out on the ice. He shoots some at the sideboards, does some stick handling drills between his feet, then sends a pile to the blue line. He skates around with a puck on his stick, pulling it in and out of the maze of other pucks on ice with ease. Watching him now, you would never know that his brain is suffering. But I guess that's the joy of a concussion. You never know when they're better, or when they are just faking being better, so no one asks them if they are better.
I watch as Sidney lines up the pucks on the blue line and begins firing them at the net. I can't see from where I am sitting if they are going in or not, so I climb to my feet and move down to the side of the ice, leaning against the boards, just like I used to watch Charlie. His dad always warned me that I was going to take a puck to the face if I leaned too far over the boards and shoo me away but it was only because the boys used to trip over themselves to get a good view of my cleavage and forget what they were supposed to be doing.
"What was that?" I ask, watching Sid take shots at the net. I see him practically jump as he realizes he isn't alone.
"What was what?" He snaps at me, turning to where I have moved, standing along the half wall of the home team box.
"You missed…" I point to an errant puck.
"Yeah, so?" He shrugs.
"Oh I'm sorry… I thought you were Sidney Crosby, he-who-shall-not-miss. I must have been mistaken…" I tease dryly.
"Really?" He snarls. Clearly he isn't a fan of someone pointing out his misses. Just like Charlie used to be.
I just shrug and give him a little smirk. He turns away from me and begins to line up ten pucks in a row. If I know him like I think I do, that little challenge will infuriate him and he will try harder and do better this time. I watch as he winds up and hits each little rubber disc towards the net. One by one they go in. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven –
*Ting*
A puck hits the crossbar and he pauses momentarily and attempts to brush off the sound. It's a sound every hockey player hates. It's the sound of failure. I can see him trying to center himself, as he winds up again.
*Ting *
"Focus," I offer in all attempts to help. It's still habit.
"Fuck off." He hisses behind him. Angrily, he pulls the last puck towards him, winds up and blasts it towards the net but the rubber sails high and wide and hits the boards behind it.
"I thought you would be better with some heckling by now," I laugh, as I see him practically strangling his stick.
"What? You think you can do better?" He challenges me.
"Yup."
"Oh pullezze!" He rolls his eyes.
"Line 'em up," I instruct him and step into the hall towards the dressing room, to the rack on the side wall where sticks are held. My stick isn't out here – hasn't been in years – so I shuffle through the guys sticks looking for one that will do the trick. When I finally settle on one, I step out onto the ice, sliding myself over to where he's standing. I wish I had skates on so I wouldn't be so much shorter then him. He looks down at me with a serious expression, the couple inches he has on me, plus the inches added by the skates, makes him seem like a giant but I know better then to let that intimidate me. In front of me are ten pucks, lined up meticulously in a perfect row. You could probably measure the distance between them and they would be exactly the same, give or take a millimetre.
I push him out of the way with the butt of my chosen stick and stare at the net. Two things could happen here. One – I could get really lucky and actually get seven or more pucks in and then I would be my own personal hero for the day and it would shut this smug bastard up. Or two, I don't get seven in and give him a bit of a confidence boost which is potentially what he needs since his head injury. I know what post-concussion depression looks like, and I would be willing to bet this guy has a bad case of it – regardless of what he might say.
I take a deep breath and wind up to fire.
*ting*
"Fuck," I swear under my breath but hear laughing coming from behind me. I am pretty sure I hear him mutter 'focus' but I tune him out. What someone should have told him was that I grew up competing with boys and hearing them laugh at me, or mock me in any way, makes me wanna beat them more.
One, Two, Three, Four –
Number four went high and wide. I don't let it phase me.
Five, Six, Seven.
I pull the last disc to my stick and look at it. This is it. I can beat Sidney Crosby – hockey god – right now in this moment.
*ting*
"Ha!" he lets rip, as the puck hit the crossbar, in the same place as my first shot. "Guess you can't beat me, hey?"
"We tied."
"But the challenge was that you could beat me – you didn't," He pointed out.
"Whatever. As long as you're okay with tying a girl," I retort, knowing that that will probably bother him just as much as losing. I hand him the stick and slowly slide back across the ice, to head out the exit down the hall from the locker rooms. I am half way up the hall to the exit when I look over my shoulder and see him following behind me - or rather stomping.
"I could kick your ass one on one out there," He shouts at me.
"I guess we'll never know – you are still no contact and I don't think I could make it through that without hitting you," I call out, taking a step towards him.
"I'm not afraid of some little girl trying to put me in the boards! I probably wouldn't even notice it," He explains, as he comes up to my side, standing in front of me. The height difference is more noticeable now then out on the ice. A regular girl might be intimidated or back down with a hockey player towering over them but I certainly won't.
"I could bury you," I reach up and poke him in the chest. 'Yeah right,' I laugh to myself but it's a nice thought.
"So how do we settle this?" he asks, stepping in close to me, and it might just be my imagination, but I believe there was a bit of a suggestive undertone to that challenge. I clearly have to select my words wisely here -
"Settle what?" James asks from down the hall, as I spin and see a group of guys standing just outside the doors to the dressing rooms. I didn't even notice there were other guys here. They must have been standing in the dressing room when I stomped past but now it appears that they have all moved out into the hall to watch the spectacle of Sid and I arguing. There is a cautious look of concern on James' face as he watches for our reactions.
"Oh hey," Sid nods and steps back from me, a slightly guilty look spread over his face.
"It's nothing. It seems as if I have just wounded your captain's ego with a little beating on the ice," I offer casually. I don't need the guys making more of this then it is. Especially James.
"You didn't beat me," He quickly corrects me. I just roll my eyes.
-.-
She didn't beat me. A tie is not a win. And technically she did say she could beat me and didn't, so actually she lost. Just saying.
"And now he is looking for a way to settle the score…" She explains to the guys standing in the hall. Some of the guys laugh and some of them shake their heads. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am not about to take this lightly.
"Well… it's karaoke night at Casey's," I hear from the back of the group, as Richards opens his fat mouth. "You guys could battle it out there – Lake of the Woods style," Richards looks at me with a shit-eating grin.
"That sounds perfect," She claps her hands together excitedly. Mike wanders up to us and drapes his arm across her shoulder possessively. She looks uncomfortable with him being so close to her and quickly tries to shrug it off. I glance over at James who is watching the same thing and worry that he is going to do something stupid again. I haven't had a chance to talk to him about what exactly Richards meant last night by the whole 'couldn't wait to get into her pants ordeal' that seemed to set him off but it's still on my to do list.
"Unless, of course, you don't want to ruin your rep by singing in public?" Mike asks me, in the most condescending tone possible, clearly not on my side. I'm not surprised. Most rivalries end on the ice but not this one. I think it will be a cold day in hell when Richie sides with me on anything. I accept the challenge and head back into the dressing room, pushing past the crowd of guys watching. Not sure what they think they are watching. It was just a silly argument. It meant nothing, or I'm pretty sure anyway...